


Cold Arkham Nights

by Neyiea



Series: But you can't be free, 'cause I'm selfish, I'm obscene [3]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Arkham Asylum, Jerome is his own warning, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-26 07:14:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20738318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyiea/pseuds/Neyiea
Summary: His days are filled with working towards his most important goal to date, but his nights aren't quite so diligent. He'd told Bruce, the last time they saw each other before Jerome was finally captured and dragged towards the place that he needed to be, that thinking about Bruce would be the only thing keeping him warm at night.He had no reason to lie about something like that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy late Batman Day!  
Saw the Joker trailer yesterday and fffffff, I guess I have to watch that movie now in preparation for the day I write non-Gotham batjokes. I am in too deep, lord. 
> 
> Anyways! Have fun. <3

The groundwork is easy to lay; he’s a charismatic messiah with a particular brand of thrilling presence, so even people who weren’t originally part of his Maniax flock to him in Arkham. Whether they’re crazy or cruel or just looking for a way to elevate their status in this pit of madness, Jerome welcomes them into the fold with a wide smile and a dissecting eye.

He’s back for a reason, after all. He’s going to find people who, like him, can topple this city to the ground and turn it into a madhouse that the world has never seen before. Arkham is rife with the sort of potential that civilized society has tried to pretend doesn’t exist, and he’s going to take advantage of it. During the daylight hours he sinks his claws a little bit deeper into the crumbling foundation of this asylum, lures more people under his power, searches for the most promising inmates and employees.

And at night he thinks about the latent potential coursing beneath the sweet façade of the boy he’d left behind, among other things.

He’s not lonely, per se, but for all that Arkham offers up to him on a silver platter there is a certain kind of stimulation that he’s missing.

A good fight with an unpredictable opponent, a pair of dark angry eyes locking sharply onto him, the taste of blood in his mouth, soft warm skin under his hands, a scuffle turning amorous, a pretty pink mouth saying his name—but Jerome has his memories to tide him over until he’s outside again.

And his imagination. 

Thinking about Bruce—precious, impossible to ignore, delightful thing that he is—has become second nature when the rooms and hallways go dark. Jerome has got so much material to work with, after all, and even more daydreams-turned-fantasies that his mind methodically stitches together when he’s in the mood for a pleasing diversion. 

He likes thinking about the night the lights went out the most, the night where his _interest_ in Bruce actually took root. Before he’d just been a pretty little rich boy. Afterwards he was a stubborn pretty little rich boy who could throw a punch and be brutal and had a sliver of something unhinged inside of him—a little capsule of carefully guarded darkness that Jerome wanted to crack open—and as if that weren’t enough, he was _so_ much more fun than he looked. 

Jerome has thought about what it would have been like to act spontaneously when Bruce was defiant and fearless in the face of what should have been certain death—after his grandstanding about his company keeping the cogs of Gotham running thus rendering him deserving of a public death when Jerome had told him that he’d broken into his home to slit his throat. He’d done it to buy time and it had worked in his favor in the end, but what if it had only brought Jerome’s closer attention earlier on instead? He’s thought about what Bruce’s pale skin would look like in the firelight, thought about his wide, uncertain eyes as Jerome’s focus on him twisted into something he hadn’t expected. He’s thought about how hard and long Bruce would have fought for if Jerome forced him into a kiss, into something more, while his faithful butler watched on in seething anger. 

Jerome has thought about the carnival, too. Bruce wanted an audience? Oh, Jerome could have let him be _seen_ in a way that would have left him flushed and squirming. Instead of introducing Bruce by having him carted out with his hands immobilized over his head Jerome would have rigged up something even more sick and sensual; the Prince of Gotham on his knees, defiant even in his hopeless situation. Obstinate even when Jerome played with his hair, a hint of something like fondness shining through for the boy who’d stood up to him so fearlessly, and the catcalls would quiet as his Maniax impatiently waited for the real start of the show. Bruce would look up at Jerome with eyes that burned as hot as coals, further branding the sight of him into Jerome’s memory, and Jerome’s gentle hold on his hair would go tight enough that Bruce’s pretty mouth would fall open in a soft cry of pain. He would showcase his power in a way that would make Bruce’s eyes gloss over with unshed tears and he’d talk to Bruce under his breath the entire time, too low for their audience to hear, guiding him and directing him and praising him until the flush on Bruce’s cheeks had nothing to do with the mortification of being seen at Jerome’s mercy by so many.

Tonight he’s in the mood for a recurring favourite that has too many possible endings for him to ever get tired of it: what if Bruce hadn’t left him alone after their tussle in the maze of mirrors?

He slips a hand under the waistband of his pants as he remembers the set-up: Bruce straddling his chest and punching his face, the sting of his skin tearing even more, the blood seeping out from under his flesh, a new sensation bubbling up inside of him as the Prince of Gotham became vicious and vengeful in a way that Jerome had not expected and would never forget. The flash in his eyes as he’d raised that shard of mirror. The way Jerome had seen him and had instantly known that Bruce could do it, that he was capable of it.

Killing.

And Jerome had been both enamored and amused at the notion of his second death being at the hand of the person who he had meant to kill, the person who should have been easy to kill. He’d goaded Bruce as the teenager was bruising his pristine knuckles on his face, and he’d done it as he held the shard aloft, too. His heart had lurched pleasantly at the knowledge that even if he did die he’d leave a mark on Bruce Wayne that would never fade away. In his memory—crisp as the night it had happened, Jerome had been sure to memorize every dirty detail—Bruce had dropped the shard, had screamed in rage and pain and suffering, and Jerome had laughed even as Bruce braced his hands on his chest to push himself up, even as Bruce began to walk away without looking back as if their little dance was insignificant and not the revelation of something truly sublime. 

But in his fantasy…

Bruce drops the shard and he lays his hands on Jerome’s chest to push himself up, but Jerome reaches out to him and digs his fingers into his soft sweater and pulls him down, closer, before he can distance himself from the situation, from Jerome, from the beautiful mess that they’ve made of each other.

“Look at you,” he rasps, blood seeping into his mouth. He’s sore and bruised everywhere, his heart is pounding, and he’s never felt more exhilarated and alive than right now. “Such an angry, clever, beautiful boy.”

Bruce’s lips curl into a snarl but something in his eyes wavers, caught off-guard by the blatant compliment. Jerome guides him down lower and Bruce’s hands press against his chest, trying to resist the pull. He’s worn out though; physically, emotionally, mentally—poor boy has survived so much tonight already when most others would have fallen at the first hurdle, killed in their own homes without difficulty or fanfare—and the exhaustion of it all is starting to weigh him down. Bruce is close enough that Jerome can feel his exhalations against his skin, closer than they’ve ever been face-to-face, and something inside of Jerome twinges excitedly.

He feels his blood start to rush. 

“Are you having as much fun as me, because I’ve gotta say,” he chuckles lowly, and Bruce narrows his eyes at him, “I was not expecting this from you.” He briefly lifts one hand to scratch at the dried blood at the corner of Bruce’s lips. “But I do love surprises. Do you have any more tricks up your sleeve, Brucie?”

Bruce bares his pearly teeth, an act of intimidation that doesn’t quite hit the mark. Jerome isn’t scared so much as turned on, and with Bruce still sitting on top of him the hedonistic side of him demands that he act on the heat that’s starting to course through his veins.

And Jerome was never one to resist his impulses.

He flips them over, delighting in the surprise that he can see flickering in Bruce’s expression. He’s surprisingly difficult to catch off guard, difficult to get a rise from, and each reaction that Jerome has managed to get from him tastes like the sweetest of victories. 

Bruce arcs his back in an attempt to throw him off, and Jerome is oddly charmed by the way he doesn’t give up even when defeat is inevitable. He lets Bruce continue his squirming and bucking, settling his weight solidly on top of him. The feel of it, Bruce’s lithe body moving frantically against his, stirs an intense hunger inside of him. He pins Bruce’s hands to the ground on either side of his head and Bruce’s ensuing glare is filled with such dark, striking promise that Jerome can almost feel the spark of desire inside of him convert into a true, raging fire. 

Fresh blood drips from the corners of his newly-mangled face, and Jerome watches it splatter onto Bruce’s cheeks and mouth. 

He looks good in red. A horror-story version of Snow White. 

Breathtaking.

“How does it feel to get your hands dirty,” he croons, wishing he had at least one hand free to dig into Bruce’s wild hair. He can’t take the chance quite yet, though, not unless he wants to risk a true knock-out punch. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

Bruce snaps his teeth at him. Jerome, maybe, falls a little bit in love.

He leans down and presses his lips to Bruce’s.

Bruce—much like he used to do in real life—resists at first. He tries to retreat, even though there’s nowhere for him to go, and then he tries to turn the kiss into a fight, but that just makes Jerome enthusiastically kiss him harder, and then he finally gives in and melts.

He goes soft and slack, and starts to hesitantly press against Jerome. Jerome can taste blood in his mouth, and he knows that Bruce must be able to taste it too. It’s grossly sexy, the idea of this pretty little rich boy coating his mouth with Jerome’s blood. Fuck, it makes him hard. He shifts so that their pelvises are flush and he grinds their hips together, and Bruce’s eyes snap open as he goes tense.

“Don’t worry, darlin’,” Jerome reassures, managing not to laugh but unable to keep his wide smile at bay. “It’s a natural reaction, and all because of you. Did your parents never have the chance to give you the sex talk?”

Bruce surges up, teeth digging into Jerome’s lip. He bites hard enough to break skin.

Jerome shudders over top of him and wonders how he managed to be this lucky. When Bruce’s teeth unclamp from his flesh he chases after Bruce’s bloody mouth like he’ll never get enough of it. The kiss is slicker and hotter and bloodier and _better_ in every conceivable way, and eventually Jerome hears something that sets him alight; a soft little moan, drawn from Bruce’s own mouth.

And he feels Bruce getting hard.

And it’s the greatest victory of the night. 

“I am so glad I let you talk me into not killing you right away,” Jerome says as he smears a trail of kisses down Bruce’s jawline. He lets go of Bruce’s hands, and instead of trying to push him away or hit him Bruce grabs onto his shoulders, his breath hitching on something like an embarrassed sob. “Shhh, you’ve done so good tonight Bruce. Look at you, drawing blood like you’re just as hungry for it as I am. I’ll take it from here, baby doll.” He slips his hands underneath the hem of Bruce’s sweater and pushes it up to show his chest and stomach. “I’m going to take such.” His hand trails down to Bruce’s pants. “Good.” He flicks open the button, draws down the zipper. “Care of you.”

“Jerome,” Bruce hisses, part mortified and part something else entirely. “We can’t—you can’t—”

“This is my night, Brucie. I can do whatever I want.” Jerome smirks at him. “Does it seem like there’s anyone around to stop me? It’s just us.” He presses a hand against the firm line of Bruce’s cock through his underwear, grinding his palm down and reveling in the way Bruce flushes all across his cheeks to the tips of his ears. “And you don’t want to stop, do you?”

Bruce shakes his head.

“Tell me, Bruce. Tell me you want to keep going, or else my attention might just start wavering.”

Not that he has any plans on stopping if Bruce doesn’t actually come out and say it, but Bruce doesn’t need to know that. He looks up at Jerome from underneath his eyelashes, and he is just so goddamn pretty that Jerome wonders why he hadn’t thought of doing this before.

“I want to keep going,” Bruce finally admits under his breath.

“Good boy,” Jerome praises, leaning back to slip down his own pants, and his watchful gaze catches something interesting. A hitched breath, a deepening flush, Bruce’s pupils expanding almost imperceptibly against his dark irises. “Good boy,” he says again, drawing it out reverently and watching Bruce squirm in response to it. He slides his pants down his thighs, and reaches to pull Bruce’s underwear down his legs, and he shifts overtop of Bruce so that their cocks press together. “My good boy,” he states, because as far as he’s concerned that’s what Bruce is, now.

His.

He takes them both in his hand and watches greedily as Bruce reacts like he’s never been touched before; mouth falling open, cheeks going darker, rocking up against Jerome like he can’t get enough of it.

“Please,” he says, eyes locked on Jerome’s face, “please.”

“You’re so cute, Brucie.” Jerome’s gloved hand drags against them both, and Bruce’s hips twitch like he’s about to come just from this. So young and inexperienced, Jerome would be a fool to not take advantage of this sinful opportunity. “Are you like this with everyone who touches you?”

“No one’s touched me before, not like this.” Bruce averts his gaze like he’s embarrassed, but his legs spread wider on either side of Jerome. Such a sweet, naively wanton darling. Jerome could get addicted to him. “Not like you.”

It’s what he expected, but it’s music to Jerome’s ears none the less.

A blank slate.

He’s going to wrap himself around Bruce and mark him up until the boy can’t think straight. It’s going to be so easy. It’s going to be so fun. Jerome’s going to teach Bruce what to associate with pleasure, is going to condition him and groom him into the perfect little playmate, and Bruce is going to accept it all because Jerome will give him what no one else ever has and will show him that this is how it’s meant to be.

And then Jerome will crack open the darkness that lurks inside of Bruce like an egg and let it flow freely. 

It’ll be brilliant.

Jerome kisses him, careful to be gentler this time, and Bruce responds to it beautifully. He opens his mouth to Jerome’s tongue, and wraps his legs around Jerome’s hips, and grinds his pretty pink cock against Jerome’s desperately. When Jerome’s hand speeds up, spreading the increasing slick that’s been dripping from them, Bruce is reduced to two words: ‘please’ and ‘Jerome’.

Jerome is reduced to ill-intentioned but strangely genuine flattery. Adoring and praising, because it seems as though Bruce craves that sort of affection, and he’s shown Jerome such a good time that it’s easy to give it to him. 

“You’re doing so well,” he says, and, “such a pretty boy,” and, “you feel so good against me,” and, “I’ll take good care of you next time, too.”

Bruce’s entire body shakes as he comes, splattering a wet mess against his uncovered stomach. Jerome keeps touching him until his calls of Jerome’s name take on a distressed undertone, then he seals their lips together before crawling up Bruce’s body, knees on either side of his chest.

“Open your mouth for me,” he demands, and even more heat rushes through him when Bruce does so, too blissed out to question Jerome’s inclinations. He strokes his dick and smears the wet head against Bruce’s soft, bloodstained lips. Bruce’s eyelashes flutter and he opens wider—like he wants Jerome, wants Jerome to use him, wants Jerome just as much as Jerome wants him—and when Jerome comes he coats Bruce’s mouth inside and out, just like his blood did.

“You’re mine,” he says under his breath and Bruce lays still underneath him, mouth only partially closed. “My precious boy. We were made for each other, me and you.” Jerome hooks a finger under his chin and lifts his jaw so that his teeth gently click together. “Absolutely perfect, that’s what you are,” he coos and Bruce stares up at him, enraptured, like he could listen to Jerome all day. “Swallow for me, won’t you?”

Bruce’s cheeks go a bit darker, but Jerome can see the shifting of his throat as he does as Jerome says. Good, good—

“Fuck, Bruce,” Jerome hisses as he comes in his fist.

It’s too bad he’ll have to wait for who knows how long until the next time he has an opportunity to play with Bruce in person, but he’ll find a way to make up for the lost time. Bruce will likely resist at first. He always resisted at first. But when Jerome brings him to the point where Bruce’s standards and values and stubbornness are nothing but a distant memory, when Bruce finally gives in and acknowledges that Jerome can give him what he needs…

Their reunion will be a thing of beauty, Jerome knows it, he can sense it. 

And he’s almost as excited for it as he is for his most important scheme to date.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jerome is the number one Dark!Bruce stan (which is really evident in here, fffffff.) I'm getting some sort of Hannigram vibes from this, which is _nice._  
Poor Bruce has gone through so much, someone give this boy a hug.

There’s something sick going on in Gotham, something that makes amusement twist inside of him. Regular people are giving in, are _letting it out_, are making a mess of the city and of the sheep who attempt to stay safe by hiding behind their locked doors and underneath their beds.

He’d only caught a small part of the news broadcast before one of the less jaded orderlies turned the rec room television off and took the remote with him, but Jerome saw enough to make wild laugher bubble up in his throat. 

He’s wondering how the night will progress—if by the time the sun rises the growing shadows that were being cast by whatever was spreading around would be dealt with—when one of the guards who’d been quick to fall under his influence approaches him. 

“You’ve got a call.”

It isn’t unheard of for one of his loyal followers on the outside to try to get a hold of him, devoutly looking to him for permission and praise. Jerome prefers to leave them wanting—making himself that little bit more untouchable, making them know that they’d have to work harder to earn his attention—but the recordings from the news and the reporter’s shaking, anxious voice make him a little more intrigued about who might be trying to contact him at such a time. Someone involved? Someone who had just given in to their darkness for the first time and became a true believer? Someone who’d eventually end up in Arkham and would prove themselves to be one of the missing pieces that Jerome was trying to gather up?

His curiosity surges.

“Lead the way,” he orders, folding his hands behind his back in an almost prim fashion. He whistles jovially as he trails behind the guard, no one spares them a second glance, and soon they’ve reached the conspicuously empty security desk.

Jerome settles himself onto the desk, uncaring of the papers that scatter in his wake, and his eyes briefly flick over in amusement to take in the grainy footage from the cameras spread haphazardly through the building, half of which were broken before he came back and have yet to be replaced. He waves the guard away as he picks up the receiver and, on a whim, chuckles darkly into it.

There’s a beat of silence.

And then—

“Is that—” the rasping voice is soft, sweet, familiar familiar _familiar_ “—how you answer all of your calls?”

For a second Jerome almost forgets how to breathe.

“Brucie,” he croons, a thrilling shock of something electric running up his spine at this marvelous surprise. “The sound of your voice, darlin’,” he doesn’t bother to hide the fondness in his tone since Bruce always reacted so wonderfully when Jerome’s affection for him was blatant, “is enough to make a man want to live to kill another day.”

Bruce makes a strangled sound and Jerome can’t quite parse it out. Not a laugh and not a scream, but maybe something strangely in-between the two. The sound of something brittle, something breaking. Jerome’s already heightened curiosity piques. 

What was happening to Bruce out there in the wilds of Gotham? What had happened since Jerome left him behind to focus on his work?

“Do you need something, Bruce?” He keeps his voice gentle and carefully calculates his words, not wanting to make Bruce angry enough that he’ll hang up right away. It’s been so long since he’s heard the dulcet sound of his sweetheart’s voice, he’d rather draw the experience out. “You’ve never called me before.”

“I’m so—” Bruce cuts himself off, breaths halting and uneven. He sounds like he’s on the verge of tears, and Jerome quite suddenly wishes that he was there to see it, to revel in it, to take a trembling Bruce in his arms and let him bury his face into his shoulder. He’d shush him, kiss his hair, run his hands up and down his back, and figure out what could have possibly happened to bring out a reaction like this if it wasn’t caused by him. There’s a flicker of something like irritation at not being the source of Bruce’s emotional upheaval, and he wonders if it’s jealousy. “I feel so—” 

“So what, Bruce? Tell me.” He runs his tongue over his lips and thinks about what the salt of Bruce’s tears would taste like if he licked them off of his cheeks. “It’ll be our little secret.”

“I can’t—I can’t.”

“But we’re so good at sharing secrets, you and I.” It proves impossible for Jerome to hold back a laugh, though he does attempt to stifle it. “What’s one more, when we have so many between us?”

Just another link in the chain that bound them together. 

Bruce lets out a shuddering breath, it sounds mostly like static through the ancient earpiece. 

“This was a mistake.”

“Don’t be like that, darlin’. You called me for a reason, don’t try to lie to yourself about it.” Jerome’s mind works furiously, trying to piece together what he knows will bring out the best reaction. It doesn’t matter if he gets Bruce angry if Bruce is on the verge of hanging up anyways, so there are all sorts of statements he could put into words that he knows would make Bruce snarl and curl his hands into tight fists. Jerome closes his eyes and savors the thought of it—of having such sway over Bruce even when he’s locked away in here and Bruce is running free out there—but he doesn’t want Bruce to end their conversation sure in the knowledge that he should have never called in the first place, doesn’t want to ensure that Bruce will never be tempted to call again. So instead of asking any of the more impulsive questions that spring to mind he softens his voice even further into something that is, at this point, reserved for Bruce only.

“Are you feeling lonely?”

He hears Bruce’s breath catch and before the other line cuts out, before he’s greeted with the hum of an ended call, he hears a soft, miserable,

“Yes.”

Jerome closes his eyes, smiling eerily wide even as his verbal connection to Bruce clicks out of existence. 

There was something else that connected them, now. Something better than phone towers, better than dead parents, better than mutually spilling each other’s blood.

Something Jerome would never forget, and something that Bruce couldn’t either.

“Poor, lonely boy,” Jerome says, sickly sweet under in his breath, as he hangs up the phone. He thinks of Bruce’s wavering voice, thinks of the way he sounded on the verge of falling apart, thinks of how he had, for however brief a moment, thought that reaching out to Jerome would make him feel better.

It’s enough to make a man feel near euphoric, really. 

“I miss you, too.” 

He means it, in his own particular way. It’s not often—or ever—that he becomes attached to someone. He’s glad that if it had to happen at all, that it was Bruce. Anyone else certainly would have proven themselves to be a disappointment.

Something warm and wicked flutters in the depths of him as he makes his way back to his cell, shutting the door securely behind him.

Outside of these walls Gotham is going crazy, and something inside of Bruce is snapping under a pressure that has nothing to do with Jerome, and maybe those two things will fuse together and Bruce—

He strips himself down, smirking at the familiar climbing of his heartbeat.

—Bruce will find himself on an edge that he can’t back away from. 

He thinks of Bruce often, almost every night, fantasizes about fighting him and kissing him and praising him and fucking him and adoring him. Thinks about making him scream, cry, beg, laugh, smile smile _smile_.

Now he thinks about Bruce with blood on his hands and splattered across the pretty, soft, almost unmarked skin of his face. Thinks about how gorgeous he would be as Bruce watched the life drain from the eyes of his first ever kill. Thinks about Bruce coming towards him and taking Jerome’s hand in his own, guiding his switchblade into the corner of his mouth where the extension of his smile was faded but present.

He spits into his palm and glides his hand over his cock.

Thinks about how the notoriety of being the one who put a permanent smile on Bruce’s face would seem like a small victory when compared to the way Bruce would lean in to the cut of his knife, allowing it to sink deep enough that the scar left behind would never ever fade.

He’d leave it as a half-smile, a little uptick on only one side of Bruce’s mouth. He’d draw his thumb against the cut and tell Bruce how sweet it looked on him and Bruce would smile just wide enough to show a flash of his teeth, and Jerome’s heart would thunder in his chest at the sight of it.

And then Jerome would strip him down—cutting him out of his clothes if he had to—because he’d told Bruce, hadn’t he, that someday Bruce would hurt someone _really bad_ and Jerome would reward him for it afterwards by fucking him _really good?_ That he’d kiss him deep before the blood even had a chance to dry?

He’d settle between Bruce’s legs and Bruce would scratch his nails along Jerome’s spine, deep enough to get Jerome’s blood under his fingernails, and he’d be hot and tight and desperate for everything as Jerome pressed his fingers inside. He’d lock his legs around Jerome and pull him close, and Jerome would kiss him and taste Bruce’s blood on his lips. Bruce would bite along the scars that extended from the sides of Jerome’s mouth. Bruce would leave his own marks behind, just as possessive and claiming as Jerome—

“Don’t tease,” Bruce demands, “I need you. You left me alone for so long.” He squirms, rocking his hips down onto Jerome’s fingers. His nails dig even harder into the flesh of Jerome’s back. “Didn’t you miss me?”

“Of course I did, darlin’,” Jerome soothes as he curls his fingers in a way that had made Bruce fall apart abruptly back when Jerome was still running free.

It has the same effect this time. Bruce’s muscles go tense as he throws his head back, and Jerome presses kisses against the column of his throat as he comes. Then Jerome pulls his fingers out so that he can toy with Bruce’s softening cock; cupping him and stroking him until Bruce is jerking and his eyes are glossy.

“It’s too much,” Bruce says, voice cracking as Jerome works him into oversensitivity. 

Jerome shushes him gently, not stopping even as Bruce’s legs encircle him hard enough to ache, even as Bruce starts thrashing underneath him, even as Bruce claws deep enough to leave scars, even as Bruce whines and keens.

He doesn’t stop until Bruce once again goes completely tense before suddenly going slack, his cock jerking in Jerome’s hand and his limbs quaking with the aftershocks. Jerome can feel him shake, can feel the muscles in his arms and legs tremble, and he leans down to lap a single tear off of Bruce’s cheek.

“I knew that everything about you would be sweet,” he murmurs. Bruce’s eyelashes flutter and his mouth falls open, but he can’t seem to catch his breath long enough to form words.

And that’s when Jerome finally lines his cock against Bruce’s rim and presses in.

Tight and hot, and wet with their shared spit that Jerome had smeared onto his fingers to help ease the way. Bruce’s breaths come faster, and his eyes begin to clear of the distant haze that had dropped over them. Jerome watches his face as he starts to pull back, delighting in the flush that overtakes Bruce’s cheeks when the head of Jerome’s cock catches on the ring of muscle and stays inside, like Bruce’s body wants to clamp down on him and keep them locked together. He pushes in again, steady and firm, and Bruce goes taut by the time Jerome is halfway inside.

“Relax, Bruce. It’ll hurt more if you don’t relax.”

Bruce takes in a deep breath and allows himself to go lax. His hands lazily trail up Jerome’s back, over his shoulders, eventually pressing over Jerome’s rapidly beating heart. The way he’s looking up at Jerome is almost hypnotizing and he smiles wide enough to show a dangerous flash of teeth again, so pearly white against the crimson that lines his mouth. 

“Such a pretty thing you are,” Jerome tells him, hushed and doting. “How did it feel to get your hands dirty, Bruce? How did it feel to kill someone in cold blood?”

Bruce’s hands move away from his heart so that he can cradle Jerome’s face with them.

“It felt _right_,” he tells Jerome without a hint of unease. Something dark and sinister lurks behind his eyes, and it’s almost enough to make Jerome’s breath catch in his throat. “It felt good.”

Jerome shivers, and he pushes forward until their hips are flush together. 

“Just when I thought that it was impossible to adore you any more than I already do,” he murmurs, transfixed. “My perfect match.”

Bruce shudders and gasps so prettily when Jerome begins to fuck him in earnest, rocking into him fast and shallow, reluctant to pull too far back. He wants to stay close, wants to sink into Bruce until they’re melded together, wants to linger inside of him always.

“Next time we’ll kill together,” Jerome promises. “We’ll have such a good time. You want that, don’t you?”

“I do, I do,” Bruce vows, and he pulls Jerome down into a kiss.

It’s nothing short of perfect.

Jerome thinks about the next time that he’ll watch Bruce bruise skin, break bone, slit flesh deep enough that the person would never be able to recover, thinks of the way Bruce will smile at him afterwards, thinks of the way Bruce will bloom further under his praise and guidance. 

They’re going to become legends. They’re going to become the stories that parents tell their children to keep them from straying out into the dark.

He kisses Bruce again, he tastes the blood in his mouth, and it feels like some sort of destiny is clicking into place. Things are finally as they’re meant to be.

Together they can turn the whole world into a madhouse. 

Bruce murmurs something against his mouth as they both come. Jerome can’t hear it clearly, but it almost sounds like—

I love you.

And he finds himself echoing it back against Bruce’s slick lips—

Jerome’s eyes flicker open to stare at the stained ceiling of his Arkham cell. He feels warm and content. The only thing that would make this better would be if Bruce were in here with him.

“I’ll try not to leave you lonely for too long, darlin’,” he vows into the stillness of the night.


End file.
